


dusk

by asexuelf



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Adorable Merrill (Dragon Age), Anxiety, Elf/Elf Relationship(s), F/M, Fenris (Dragon Age) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Fluff, Sex, Sexual Relationship(s), Unreliable Narrator, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexuelf/pseuds/asexuelf
Summary: Merrill doesn't experience afterglow. Fenris worries.
Relationships: Fenris/Merrill (Dragon Age)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	dusk

**Author's Note:**

> not related to fenrill week, but posted during fenrill week (aug 22-aug 29) anyways xD not much to this one, and a little embarrassing to have written, but here it is!
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Merrill doesn't get afterglow.

And that's okay - that's _normal._ Fenris tells himself that a few times over: "some people don't get afterglow". Just like Anders told him, just like Isabela told him.

"It's perfectly and absolutely fine to not experience afterglow, Fenris," Isabela said to Anders' laughter.

"And honestly," Anders had added. "It's just your luck that you wouldn't. There's nothing wrong with you."

It was their mistake to think he was referring to himself, but he repeats their words in his head regardless. _There's nothing wrong with you._

He can't help but worry. Granted, never as much as he did after that night under his leaky roof, starlight spilling in through the holes in the ceiling - the night which preceded all the others, allowing those which came after to fall in line so freely. At first, he'd thought he'd harmed her.

He'd sat quietly with his anxiety, his worried brow turning his face into a grimace. "Are you well?"

"Hm?" She's turned to him, distracted and a little uncomfortable-looking. While Fenris laid back awkwardly against the headboard, Merrill sat at the side of the bed. "Yes, of course."

She kept using the towel he'd put beneath her to rub at herself, as if trying to remove something invisible. There wasn't much to rub away, even from the thick dark curls protecting her mound. He'd wrapped up carefully, using one of those expensive rubber condoms as opposed to a sheepskin, and when that made his climax difficult past the point of comfort after her own, he'd pulled out, removed it, and finished in his hand, careful not to spill onto her stomach.

There was no mess, but she rubbed anyways.

"Are you… satisfied? Have I harmed you?"

She'd caught his eyes lingering uncertainly on the pinkish lips beneath her hand and muttered, "Oh. You mean-" Then, louder, "No, Fenris, I'm alright. I had an _excellent_ time."

She'd kissed him somewhat playfully, but a little part of his mind was certain she was humoring him. She had that same patient smile and those same alert-but-tired eyes as she did when she didn't know what he was talking about. He hadn't pleased her, and, for whatever reason, she felt she had to lie about it. He was sure of it.

His own afterglow faded quickly then. He'd leaned over to cuddle her, hoping to pull her close, but she stood to wash herself of sweat and "have a very quick pee, I'll be right back". While she did her business, he laid in the too-large too-small bed and agonized over what he possibly could have said or done to make her feel unsafe enough to lie.

It had been a silly anxiety. He tells himself that now, _it's a silly thing to be anxious about,_ especially given he can just _ask her_ whatever he needs to, but the pain of it doesn't quite leave his chest.

She's lying backward, arms splayed and bare breasts pointing up, the small swells falling sideways towards her armpits in a way that makes his cheeks warm. She's so _cute_ . Even her nipples are like… brown kitten noses. Or something. Fenris isn't very good at _cute,_ but he's good at lying his head on her belly, so he flips himself over to do that with a contented sigh.

She rouses a little at the weight, moving a sleepy hand to rest in his hair. "Hello, Fenris," she yawns. "Are we doing sex again?"

"Would you like to?" he asks mumblingly. He knows she won't be coherent enough to comprehend it, but he says it anyways. He still worries. He wants to make her feel good.

"I'm allergic to that one, actually."

And then she's out, snoring adorably.

She's content. When they made love, she was content. By her hollering, she was likely a bit more than content - and the scratch marks that have made an itchy home beside the lyrium lines on his back are fair proof, if he needs it. She's _happy._ She _felt good in bed._ She told him so and he's made doubly sure through both word and action that he's not the type of person she'd ever feel the need to lie about her pleasure to.

Still. He worries.

And if he worries, he can plot. Surely there's a way. Where there's a will, there's a way.

When he falls into sleep, it's to the symphony of her snores and the memory of her gasping moans. When he dreams, he dreams of her.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
